


Make Yourself At Home

by linguamortua



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, First Time Blow Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Returning Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: Brad’s okay with being alone. More than okay. But this is okay, too. Not that he’s ever,evergoing to voice that to Ray fucking Person.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Comments: 9
Kudos: 97





	Make Yourself At Home

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in May, during my first ever Gen Kill viewing. And then I took a hard left into 'pairings nobody cares about'. But here it is, finished. It's tagged Brad/Ray but the real OTP is Ray/sloppy blowjobs tbh.

Brad opens the door, and there he fucking is. Unexpected, uninvited. Brad lets his eyebrows trek as high as they can go. Ray is standing on the cracked flagstones of Brad’s front path, in a limp grey t-shirt that’s seen better days and a pair of faded blue jeans. He’s got a rucksack on one shoulder. All his weight is on his left leg and his other leg is bouncing with nervous energy.

Ray screws up his face and looks at Brad like he didn’t just see him a week ago. ‘Oh hey, this is _your_ house?’ he says.

‘No,’ Brad says emphatically, because silence is golden and Ray is a nightmare. He starts shutting the door. Ray’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. Most people wouldn’t even notice. But Brad isn’t most people, and he’s just spent weeks jammed into a humvee with the guy. Internally, he sighs. Old habits dying hard, he guesses. He opens the door back up. 

Ray comes in, brushing past him and bowing with his hands together. He clocks Brad’s shoes by the door and takes his own off. His left sock has a hole in it and his big toe is poking through.

‘You look like shit,’ Brad tells him sincerely. Ray looks like he’s been sleeping even less than Brad lately. He looks like shit because he’s tired, but he looks worse than that, too. He’s unshaven, glassy-eyed and there’s a distinct red line down his cheek where its been resting on something.

‘Thanks man,’ Ray says, his eyes barely focusing on Brad. His pupils are huge and dark. Brad observes as his eyes flick back and forth. Ray’s mouth is moving a little as though he’s trying to puzzle out a difficult sentence, but he’s not actually talking. 

Brad’s seen him like this so often before that he doesn’t have to ask to know that Ray is high. But he does anyway. 

‘How many dicks did you suck on the way here to score?’ he says. 

‘To score? Zero,’ Ray says. ‘For fun?’ He jams his tongue into his cheek and makes a jerk-off motion next to his face.

‘There’s leftover pizza in the fridge,’ Brad says despairingly and closes the front door, shutting himself into his own house with Ray Person. Ray’s never been here before, but he finds the kitchen and opens the fridge like his name’s on the mortgage. 

Ray stands there in his nasty socks on Brad’s clean kitchen floor, with the fridge door open. He opens the pizza box and folds half a slice into his mouth, the cold cheese peeling up and sticking to his face. At this point in their long acquaintance, Brad can only assume Ray eats like this on purpose.

‘I’m in hell,’ he says, half to himself. And then, nonsensically, ‘there’s sports on.’

‘Sports,’ repeats Ray, his mouth full. 

‘I’m going to put the football on, and you’re going to shut up,’ Brad says. He uses his Voice of Authority, which works on Ray only occasionally when it’s contextually appropriate, and works on Ray not at all right now.

‘Sorry to violate your vow of silence and chastity, dude,’ says Ray, shoving more pizza into his mouth. Brad tries not to think about what Ray’s unwashed hands have recently touched before grubbing around in Brad’s pristine fridge. ‘I just thought you might want your old buddy to keep you company. I worry about you, Brad. Sitting at home alone, jerking it to photos of your ex. But it’s okay. I got you. We can jerk off to photos of her _together_.’

He smiles, showing all his teeth and a strand of cheese clinging disgustingly to his chin. 

_Cool,_ thinks Brad, breathing _in-two-three-four-out-two-three-four_. He retreats to the lounge and sits on the sofa, which is still warm from where he was sitting when Ray rang the doorbell.

Brad stretches his legs out and rests his heels on the coffee table. Never once has he put a coffee mug on it, but it’s a great footstool. Seconds later, Ray crashes down onto the couch and cracks a giant yawn. Brad’s jaw tingles in sympathy. 

Ray lasts about thirty seconds upright, and then he lies down. There’s no space; his legs hang over the arm of the couch. He turns, curls into a ball, then sighs and kicks one leg off the couch.

‘If you don’t sit still, I will fetch a nail gun and attach you to the couch by your scrotum,’ Brad tells him.

‘You’d have to touch my balls, dude,’ Ray says, grabbing the single couch cushion and experimentally putting it under his head. ‘That would be so gay.’

Brad decides not to respond. He unmutes the TV and turns the volume up a little, just in case Ray starts talking again. For a whole two minutes, he gets to watch sports on a Sunday afternoon, just as the universe intended. All is right with the world. He casts a subtle glance down at Ray, who has his eyes closed and a smudge of pizza grease on his cheek. He looks like he’s falling asleep, or already there. 

As if triggered by Brad’s thoughts, Ray relocates, sliding up towards Brad and unceremoniously putting his head on Brad’s thigh.

‘Put the Nascar on,’ he says.

‘Nascar isn’t a sport,’ Brad tells him. He makes the mistake of looking at Ray as he says it, and catches Ray looking up at him. Brad scrubs any hint of affection from his internal systems. ‘No,’ he says.

Ray stretches for the remote and flips the channels until the sound of screeching tires and fucking redneck commentary fills Brad’s house, his inner sanctum.

‘Thanks,’ says Ray. He looks up at Brad again, deliberately making his cheeks dimple.

Brad makes an agonised sound. It wasn’t like he was invested in the football. It was the principle of the thing. But Ray has the remote clutched in his hand, and if Brad tries to take it there’ll be a fight. He’s too tired to fight. His body is still recovering from Iraq. It would be stupid to expend energy when he doesn’t have to, and besides, Ray has some dirty tricks that Brad prefers not to be on the receiving end of.

Eventually, the show switches to tedious analysis. A bunch of hicks sitting around pretending like Nascar has any strategy to it. Brad switches off the TV and looks down at Ray. 

‘Wake up, motherfucker,’ he says, and jostles Ray’s head with his knee. Ray’s eyes crack open; they’re bloodshot. He paws at them.

‘Sleep deprivation is a war crime,’ he says.

‘The only crime here is your dumbfuckery,’ Brad says, almost gently, as if trying to explain something to a very small child. Ray grins, his eyes sliding closed again. He rolls over onto his back and folds his hands on his stomach, legs up on the arm of the couch with ankles crossed. It’s still a mystery to Brad why he’s here.

Brad’s okay with being alone. More than okay. But this is okay, too. Not that he’s ever, _ever_ going to voice that to Ray fucking Person.

Brad, partly for his own amusement and partly because he’d always wondered what Ray would look like with a dick, any dick, in his mouth, ruffles Ray’s hair and says, ‘You want to crash here, you better bring something to the party.’

‘Like beer?’ Ray says, spacey. 

‘Like a blowjob?’ Brad says. He isn’t prepared for the little thrill he gets when he says it. 

‘Oh,’ says Ray, not really sounding surprised. He tips his head on Brad’s thigh, and brings up a loose, lazy hand to tug at the drawstring on Brad’s shorts. Anticipating a game of chicken, Brad helps him get them undone and pulls his cock out. He slaps it against Ray’s face, wondering exactly how far he can push it until Ray shoves himself off the couch, calls him a faggot, and goes to raid his fridge for beer or shit in his bathtub, or something.

Instead, Ray rolls onto his side and opens his mouth. His tongue is very pink, Brad notices absurdly. Hardly breathing, Brad tilts his hips so that he can touch the head of his dick to it. _Fucking hell_, Brad thinks, because this is actually working. It’s actually happening. Ray, who does nothing but talk about sucking dick, is actually a cocksucker. That’s probably what psychologists mean when they talk about projection. 

Brad opts not to think about what this new game is revealing about himself. He hooks one elbow over the back of the couch for leverage. The inside of Ray’s mouth is warmer than should be possible. Was it always like that? Brad hasn’t gotten some in so long that it’s hard to remember. He wonders if he can make Ray gag. He wonders if he should. Slowly, he pushes into Ray’s mouth until his cock slides along the ridges of Ray’s palate, back and back. Ray moans and his throat flexes. He doesn’t gag.

Brad rests his palm on Ray’s face, so that he can feel the head of his cock through Ray’s cheek. He rubs at it. Ray makes a stifled sound. Then he twists his hips around and jams his hand down the front of his jeans, not bothering to undo them. He doesn’t have to, because the waistband sags between the sharp points of his hip bones; Ray’s too thin, like Brad is. Unlike Brad, half the time he’s too tweaked out to remember to get some real fucking nutrition into him.

Ray’s moving his tongue around mindlessly in his mouth. His eyes are closed. It’s weirdly insulting to Brad, who right now feels like he wants Ray to be way more grateful for the privilege of blowing him. Definitely not checking the fuck out.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Ray.’ He slaps Ray’s cheek a little, feeling it in his cock. Ray looks up at him through his thick fringe of very black eyelashes. He makes an interrogative noise, and Brad watches a line of spit trickle out Ray’s mouth and down his dick. ‘You look like a slut,’ he says, happily. The eyelashes—which are _fucking dire_, Brad realises—flutter involuntarily, and Ray makes another sound that isn’t at all interrogative. Brad’s dick jerks, getting really into it.

The wet, sucking noise Ray makes as he swallows; the click of his throat. The way he’s breathing through his nose. The fevered rustle of his hand down his pants getting himself off. For someone who makes noise all the time, Ray sure is using that talent to advantage. His arm’s going like he’s operating heavy machinery, shaking him against Brad’s thigh again and again, rocking the couch. The couch has a little squeak to it. Ray’s making soft sounds in his throat, like, real sex noises. Rhythmic. Brad thinks his own cock’s leaking, but Ray’s mouth is so wet that he can’t tell for sure.

Brad wonders if Ray’s queer for everyone, or if this is a weird transference thing. Or maybe PTSD. He never heard in training that PTSD could make you want to suck dick, but anything’s possible. He doesn’t care to think about what this says about himself. 

He clears his throat.

‘I’m gonna come,’ he manages, his voice strained. And then, ‘you better fucking swallow. I don’t want jizz on my couch.’

Ray laughs around his dick, and the vibrations make Brad’s eyes roll a little. He grabs the back of Ray’s skull and presses his cock in deep. Anyone else would choke on it. Ray is experienced or high enough not to. His breathing goes thick and Brad can hear his throat working. Suddenly Brad wants to see it. He hooks his thumb into Ray’s cheek and opens his mouth up, so that he can watch the place where the head of his cock butts up against Ray’s throat, watch the muscles move. Watch his own cock pulse as he comes, and see Ray’s mouth fill up with come and spit.

Ray’s body is tense all over, the tendons in his neck standing up. His arm is still going, jerking himself off with feverish intensity. It’s not the first time Brad’s been in the vicinity when Ray’s jacking it. He knows how Ray looks when he’s trying to cross the finish line under time pressure.

He’s not sure how he feels about it.

So Brad just sits there like a dumbass teen, helplessly looking at his softening cock, and at Ray’s open mouth. 

‘Swallow,’ he says again, nudging Ray’s head with his palm.

Ray moans and does, open-mouthed. The sound is filthy. Then Ray makes a strangled noise and pulls off Brad’s dick, and grabs at himself with both hands. His back arches; he shudders. 

‘Oh my God, Brad,’ he says eventually. Brad hears his own name with a little frisson of something. Figuring out what the _something_ is feels dangerous. He fishes down the side of the couch to find some abandoned paper napkins from his pizza order. He dries himself off and puts himself away, doing up his sweatpants drawstring in a neat bow.

‘You can stay over,’ he informs Ray. ‘But you’re taking the couch. I don’t need you trying to hump my pillows in the middle of the night.’

‘Whatever you need to tell yourself, dude,’ Ray says sleepily. His head is still resting on Brad’s thigh, and his hand is still down in the front of his jeans. If Ray wants to sleep with wet boxers, that’s his business. Brad isn’t going to say anything about it.

With some effort, he lifts one leg and then the other up onto the coffee table again. Ray’s head slips a little so it’s nestled into Brad’s belly. Brad can feel the damp warmth of Ray’s breath through his t-shirt. 

He’ll tell Ray to move in a minute. He just wants to rest his eyes first.

He closes them. 

He sleeps for hours.


End file.
